“Don’t let’s make it too smart,” said Ruth the evening before, as Kate, carried away, started to spray furniture polish and rub at the brass knobs of the doors, “or people will think they’ve come to the wrong house”—and indeed Hugo’s first words, as he called in to see how they were getting on, were “What a very unusual smell, Katie.” Kate, in her apron and rubber gloves, put down her spray can and said primly, “That is the smell of cleanliness, Hugo,” and agreed to knock off for the evening, releasing her gang of assistants, all of whom disappeared promptly to bed or the pub, leaving Kate and Hugo to sit back with a drink and a plateful of scrambled eggs, amidst the unfamiliar shining surfaces.

Hugo was off to Bagdad. It was too late, he said, for Kate to change her mind and come with him, as it was impossible to get a visa at such short notice.

“I never meant to come anyway,” said Kate, and gazed at Hugo fixedly, as though for the last time, as though trying to work out for the last time what she thought about him. He reached out his hand, across the kitchen table, and laid it on her arm. He did not often touch her, or indeed anyone, and she stared at his hand as though she had never seen it before.

“I’ll never go anywhere with anyone,” said Kate, thinking of those little white waves lapping on the aquamarine-and-yellow quay, of aeroplanes taking off, of foreign cities and minarets, of nice hygienic little meals on plastic trays with plastic cutlery. “I shall stay here, amidst the fish heads. This is my place.”

“I don’t see any fish heads,” said Hugo.

“You know what I mean,” said Kate.

“Yes, I know what you mean,” said Hugo.

“What do you think will become of us?” said Kate.

“God knows,” said Hugo.

“I shall miss you,” said Kate. “You are my good friend.”

“I’ll come back,” said Hugo. “Lightning never strikes twice. I am safe now, wouldn’t you think?” And Hugo thought of gunfire, and snipers, and explosions, and wondered whether he could ever tell her the truth about his accident, which had in fact resulted from the one true act of bravery in his life, and which therefore had not been random, pointless, purposeless at all, though there was no one left to tell the tale for him, no witnesses, for they had all died anyway, all but one, and that one too young to speak, and, please God, thought Hugo, to remember. What had it all proved? Nothing much, it is too much to hope that one act will ever resolve us, we have to go on acting till the end. No, he would not tell her, he would tell no one. Secrecy would dignify the ambiguous memory.

“Yes,” said Kate, not knowing all this, “you are surely safe now.”